


Texts to a Broken Man

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, I wrote this a while ago, M/M, Not sure what to think of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is killed on duty, Mycroft breaks slowly. Texts from Greg pierce the story as it progresses. Prompted by my partner in angst Ibeggedformercytwice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texts to a Broken Man

_I should have worn my vest. You were always nagging at me to do so. - GL_

 

The human body is remarkably fragile. Incredibly so, so fragile that it only took a fraction of a second before Gregory Lestrade went from a sprinting Detective Inspector, chasing yet another London criminal, to a wounded statistic, a hole in his chest. Just another Yarder injured. It took only a minute or two before the injury passed through to mortal wound, and the DI was Former DI Lestrade. Deceased. Mycroft was sitting at his desk when the call came in, a frantic flurry of words from one person or another. He took a few deep breaths, hoping, praying to whatever deity could stop the news he somehow knew he was about to hear.

 

"Its Inspector Lestrade, Sir. He has been killed, trying to stop a thief with a gun. Anthea is the one on the line, grief audible in her tone. "My deepest regrets and condolences." She was the only one who knew, knew of their plans, the true depth of their relationship, the hurt and pain that was radiating through the politician now, sharper than a knife. He  swallowed his emotions, putting the phone back into its cradle.

 

Steepling his fingers under his chin, Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to make sense of everything. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. Not Gregory. Sweet, endearing, loving Gregory… Mycroft looked up at the ceiling, as if it would provide the answers. He sighed, his breath coming out ragged in the office, shaking his head delicately. Was this how pain felt? The ever tightening of his chest, the searing hole where his heart used to be? He let out a quiet derisive laugh, his heart was melted just long enough for it to finally be broken, shattered, removed. His heart had withered and died in a heartbeat, and now was to be buried six feet under cold, dark, constricting earth, too deep to ever be recovered again.

 

_It's okay to cry, you know? Nobody would think less of you. – GL_

 

To have to bury one close family member is a trial, and one of those rare things in life that sadly can be seen almost constantly. However, to have to bury two in the space of a month is nothing short of pitiful, an experience that should never be experienced, if there is any justice in the world. Sadly, the world is oft not a just one, and Mycroft once again found himself sitting in the front row of a church, looking across at a casket which instead of holding his brother, now held his partner. Mycroft was treated as mourner-in-chief, everyone expecting him to be on the edge of tears at the very least. However, he held back his tears. He couldn't cry, not in front of everyone like this.

 

The funeral was beautifully arranged, the politician's pedantic attention to detail making itself prevalent in everything, from the flowers, to the music, beautiful classical pieces the two of them had enjoyed, in addition to a couple of Gregory's favourites. The whole ceremony screamed of Gregory, and it nearly killed Mycroft to of had to plan it. He listened numbly throughout the eulogies, feeling John tense beside him when Sally Donovan started to talk. Mycroft cast a glance over to the army doctor. I'm not the only one who lost someone.. Mycroft reminded himself. Once the ceremony had finished, and the casket carried out, Mycroft finally turned to John. "Thank you for coming." He said quietly, his face still steeled.

 

John nodded curtly. "He was a friend, and a good one at that." His face softened slightly. "Are you going to be okay Mycroft? I mean…" He sighed. "If you need me." Mycroft smiled sadly at him for a fraction of a second, the mask slipping for all of a moment.

 

"Thank you Doctor Watson, I shall bear that in mind." He let out a small sigh as the mourners turned to go, leaving Mycroft alone with the grave, as he probably always would be.

 

_Anthea is worried about you. She isn't the only one. You're spending too much time at the office. You'll kill yourself doing that. I'm serious, Mycroft. You may be a Holmes but you're a human first. – GL_

 

Working all through the night was not a concept unfamiliar to the elder (and now only) Holmes. It was a week after the funeral, and Mycroft hadn't left the office, only to barely eat, or if work required his presence elsewhere. He had a wardrobe, bathroom and sofa; he had no reason to return home. Home, with its empty bed, the constant and painful reminders of the man he had lost. It was nearing the end of the day, and Anthea appeared in the doorway.

 

"Sir, you need to go home." She said softly, worriedly. "You haven't been back since.." Anthea sighed, shaking her head slowly. "He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself." Mycroft looked up at her, his face steeled. "I am perfectly fine Anthea." He insisted, turning back to his work quickly. "Inspector Lestrade would appreciate the fact that I am still working."

 

Anthea's face fell sadly. "Sir. You're not fine. In the slightest sense of the word. You won't even say his name aloud, what does that indicate?" She asked rhetorically. "You need a break from work, go home now and again." "

 

Anthea, you are my assistant, not my therapist." Mycroft muttered, not looking up at her. "Unless you are going to stay here and assist me, go home." "Sir…" She started, sighing. Anthea looked across at her boss, defeated. "Good night Sir. Please try and get some sleep. Breakfast will be here at nine am." Mycroft said nothing, immersing himself in the papers he held about the current Russian embargo. He let out a delicate sigh after Anthea left, running his hands through the remnants of his ginger curls.

 

_I finally found your brother today. He's doing well. Don't worry. I'll look after him for you. Just like before. – GL_

 

No one should have to bury their little brother. His usual Sunday pilgrimage to the local graveyard with Gregory had become longer, now more than the normal half hour beside Sherlock's grave, joining John in his silent grief respectfully. Now, there were two graves to visit. His first time doing this alone. The politician sighed quietly, entering the graveyard reverently, looking across in the strangely dull July morning. Mycroft still visited Sherlock's first, offering John a small nod as he approached. Before all this, he could only begin to fathom how John felt, now he understood the doctor's silent pain, mirrored by his own.

 

The aforementioned doctor looked up at him sadly. "Mycroft, you don't have to be here, not right now." He sighed, smiling sadly at him.

 

Mycroft shook his head. "It's a Sunday. This is what I do on Sundays." He swallowed the lump in his throat, determined not to show any significant emotion in front of the doctor. He had enough to deal with. "My condolences John…" "He's your brother; I should be offering you my condolences…" John sighed, slumped like the entirety of the worlds worries rested on his shoulders. "Especially now."

 

"I know how you felt about him." Mycroft looked up at him, his gaze unwavering. "And I now know how that feels. To lose the person you loved." He swallowed visibly. "Therefore my condolences will always be extended."

 

John knew he should have been shocked by Mycroft's deduction, and a part of him said he should deny it, but John only smiled sadly. "Thank you Mycroft. Sorry for your loss." He offered weakly.

 

Mycroft gave him another curt nod before looking down at the grave once more and walking towards the other side of the graveyard, a bunch of flowers still in his hand. He walked deftly and silently over to the particular grave, one still embellished with recent reminders of the funeral. The politician carefully arranged the flowers, a meticulously selected bunch of roses, lilies, and violets, placing them delicately in a vase. He stepped back, listening to the methodic and fitting sounds of the birds that had nested in the trees above Gregory's grave. Mycroft cleared his throat quietly, looking down at the grave.

 

"I have never been one to express words of love or affection readily, and I will regret that until I die. However, I feel I should say that I love you." His lip quivered slightly, his voice grew thick. "I love you, and I will forever. Nothing will ever change that." Mycroft took in a deep breath. "I miss you, as well. I've only just been able to go back to the flat, can you believe it… I couldn't face being there, looking at the door, still expecting you to come back. Please come back Gregory.." Mycroft looked up at the sky, desperate.

 

"Please."

 

_You'll give yourself a heart attack this way. – GL_

 

Mycroft didn't even take a single day off. Life had so cruelly taken away his family, his partner… Work was all that he had left, so he threw himself into it with the vigour only a grieving man can manage. He resumed the long hours, only trudging back to the all too empty flat once Anthea insisted, (or, as he put it, threatened him and the availability of work on his desk if he didn't go back home.) Regardless, he still kept up the emotionless façade at work, making it his main priority. The bitter truth was that he just had to focus on work, otherwise the crushing weight of the world would resume its rightful place on Mycroft's shoulders, the load of his many burdens crippling, especially the main memory, the most pained emotions, the deepest regrets, all focused on the dwindling memories of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, deceased.

 

Anthea came into his office, one evening in August, a folder in her hand and a frown on her face. "Sir, it's time to go home." She admonished lightly, walking over to his desk.

 

Mycroft waved her off, staring down at the piece of work. "I'm fine, I have to finish this form."

 

Anthea looked over at the work he was doing. "Sir, with all due respect, this file isn't due in for another fortnight. Go home." Her voice turned soft. "Please. You need to rest, this isn't healthy." She looked him over. "And if I may speak freely, I would suggest you visit a doctor."

 

Mycroft glared up at her. "Anthea. I am fine." He folded his arms stubbornly. "I refuse to go home, I am not a child, and you are not my minder!" His voice grew louder unintentionally. "I don't need babysitting, and I most certainly don't need my assistant telling me what to do all the time!" Mycroft was turning a distinct shade of red, before putting his head in his hands. "Just go…"

 

Anthea was more than slightly taken aback, having never seen Mycroft irritated or angry more than a slight eye roll or glare at his brother. She thought about being angry, but decided against it. He was a grieving man, and grieving men were in that bracket along with pregnant women called 'People allowed to be angry.' "Goodnight sir." Anthea nodded softly, leaving the office. She tried to ignore the sounds of smashing glass, buckling wood, or even, the worst sound of all, the sounds of Mycroft Holmes' sobs reverberating through their deserted corner of Whitehall.

 

_And you said grieving was a concept you didn't understand.It's been too long now though. Move on. I was only a bloody Yarder. – GL_

 

John decided to visit Mycroft around six months after the funeral. Sighing, the politician opened the door, not minding how haggard he looked, or that the dark bags under his eyes now looked like bruises. He still tried to put on a smile, welcoming John in. "Doctor Watson, how have you been?" He asked, moving into the kitchen to start making tea.

 

John looked the man over. "Mycroft, don't take this the wrong way, but you look a wreck."

 

Mycroft simply gave him a look. "John, in what way could that be taken 'right." He sighed. "Anthea sent you over, didn't she."

 

John had the decency to look guilty. "She's just worried about you. We both are."

 

"John, I assure you, your worries are misplaced. I would still be at work if Anthea hadn't insisted I take a week off, going to my superiors to make sure I enforced it." He muttered bitterly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, bringing over a cup of tea to John. "How are you?" He diverted the subject.

 

"Mycroft, don't you even try to change the subject." John muttered. "I have my people to talk to, who do you have?" Mycroft's silence said more than words ever could. "My point exactly. When was the last time you ate properly?" John asked, looking at him again. "I'm actually thinking I can see your ribs under your shirt. You are not fine."

 

Mycroft levelled him with a look. "John, I am perfectly fine. If you came here in your capacity as a doctor, now would be a good time to leave. If you came here in your capacity as a human being, then I think you are sadly misplaced." Mycroft muttered. "I have my people to talk to."

 

John looked at him sadly. "It's good to have people who talk back Mycroft." He sighed quietly, finishing his tea. "Look, if you need anything, I'll be here to talk." John stood up, looking down sadly at Mycroft. "Look after yourself, please."

 

Mycroft nodded, trying to put a smile on his face. "I will consider that, thank you John." He showed the doctor out, trying to ignore the pitying look he received. Mycroft shook his head sadly, sitting down on the sofa, perching on its edge. He steepled his hands under his chin again, looking down at the table, seeing a photo of his other, better half, smiling. He cleared his throat softly. "I used to say that caring isn't an advantage. I still know somewhere that the sentiment is true, I mean, look at me.." he sighed quietly. "I'm a mess without you Greg… And yet, if someone offered me the chance to go back, to wipe all of this out of my life… I wouldn't take it. I wouldn't give up the time we shared for anything, even if it meant my heart wasn't breaking now." Mycroft's eyes were streaming, his face covered in tears as he grabbed a nearby pillow and held it tight. "I miss you, so much…" Clutching onto the sofa pillow for dear life, Mycroft fell into an uneasy and restless sleep, quiet sobs tiding him over into unconsciousness.

 

 

_I warned you. Didn't I? A heart attack? You're not ready yet. England still needs you down there. I think the Prime Minister nearly had a heart attack himself when he found out about you. It was amusing. Young thing looked so scared. – GL_

 

The first thing he saw was white. Bright white light filled his senses, making him wince. He closed his eyes again, frowning a little. "Anthea, could you pull the blinds please.." He muttered quietly, trying to turn over, expecting to meet the sofa back of the chaise lounge in his office. Mycroft's face fell into a frown again when instead of feeling the edge of his sofa, he feels the edge of a bed. He opened his eyes, spotting the monitors around him, the IV in his arm, the sterile whiteness of a unfamiliar room. A hospital room. He turned his gaze the other way, noticing Anthea sitting beside his bedside. "Care to explain what happened?" He asked quietly, his voice weak.

 

Anthea sighed. "You had a heart attack sir, during the Russia meeting. Most probably caused by working far too much, resting too little, and trying to survive on rice cakes for the last six months." Her voice was tinged with concern, shaking her head slightly. "Sir, you're very lucky to be alive. Your heart was already weakened; I refuse to let you go back to work."

 

Mycroft looked up at her sadly. "What's the worst that could happen if I go back?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

 

"You could die sir." Anthea looked at him sternly.

 

"Somehow I don't think that's the worst thing that could happen…" He replied. "That would actually be the second best thing to happen, the best being Gregory not being dead and walking into this hospital room." Mycroft's face fell, the mask finally cracking. "I can't do this Anthea, I just can't." He admitted. "I've been doing this for six months, I can't."

 

Anthea's face fell for a fraction of a second before regaining its usual composure. "Sir, you can't mean that." Mycroft sighed, looking away from her. "Tell the office I shall be in within three days." Hesitantly, and with a final pleading look, she nodded. "Of course sir." With that, she walked out of the hospital room, hiding her tears.

 

_You're back at work already? I could kill you. I can't but I could. You're meant to be resting, Mycroft. – GL_

 

Mycroft kept his word, out of the hospital and back into work within a matter of days. The doctors had earnestly warned him against it, but he was not a man to be dissuaded easily. Not even John Watson bursting into his office could change his mind.

 

The good army doctor did burst in, quite unceremoniously, whilst he was hunched over the desk. "Are you fucking crazy?!" John muttered angrily, storming over to the desk.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him."Good afternoon to you as well John, tea?"

 

John folded his arms. "Why are you here?"

 

"I work here, just in case you didn't know, this is my office, and the woman outside is my assistant, Anthea. Do say hello on the way out." Mycroft muttered, going back to his papers.

 

"Mycroft. Don't get pissy with me." John replied, anger still apparent on his face. "You need to go home, and rest." He insisted.

 

Mycroft looked up at him properly. "And why should I do that? Give me one good reason why I should stay here, living. Right now, and probably for the rest of my life, I'm not going to be happy. My heart doesn't work, and you know as well as I do why it doesn't." He paused, taking in a breath. "I see no point in trying to elongate the rest of my miserable existence, let me do what I do best until I keel over." John was speechless. He looked at the politician angrily trying to read him, desperately trying to find deception in his words. After a few moments he shook his head. "Mycroft, I'm sorry." John sighed, before shaking his head. This isn't goodbye, Mycroft."

 

Mycroft took John's hand. "Goodbye John. Look after yourself." He gave him a final sad smile as the doctor turned around, walking out of the door, knowing that it would probably be the last time he saw the army doctor. "Good luck."

 

_Jesus. You really don't care anymore, do you? It's not so great up here. Just please stop working so bloody hard. You know working doesn't heal the pain, right? – GL_

 

Mycroft set to work, quite literally. He upped his schedule, working desperately. Anthea couldn't stand to be in the same room as him for long, not because he was unpleasant, but he could see that tears began to swell up in her eyes if they talked for too long. On some level he felt immensely guilty for putting her through this, but on another, he knew she would be better off without him, she'd find a new boss, be as good to them as she was to him. It was about two weeks after John had said his goodbyes that Mycroft finally got his affairs in order. He took a break from work, taking out a pen and paper, penning a final note to the two people left in his life who would care about his departure.

 

Tucking the note under his desk, Mycroft smiled sadly, his chest beginning to ache a little. With a small sigh, he moved to his next meeting, offering a tender smile to Anthea one final time.

 

_Oh now you've gone and bloody done it. I may be dead but I can still see you in that blasted hospital. –GL_

 

When one wakes up in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital, there is a catalogue of usual emotions that are often felt. Anger, fear, confusion, for examples. Relief is not one of them. Gratitude is another abnormal emotion to feel when you are on the cusp of death. Mycroft however, partially woke from his slumber, not needing to open his eyes to know where he was. The slow beep of the heart monitor beside him was enough, the compression of his chest a tell tale sign that he had another heart attack. Mycroft let himself take a few deep breaths, readying himself to see Gregory again, his precious and wonderful Gregory.

 

 

He had never had a definitive belief in any form of after life, but to think of nothingness, where he would never see his angelic detective inspector, seemed preposterous. With a gentle sigh, Mycroft finally found himself at peace, feeling himself slowly drift away, consciousness becoming a distant memory, pain, hurt and suffering evaporating away, relief and happiness taking their place as he fell, waiting for the moment where he and Gregory would be together at last.

 

 

"I always said you'd work yourself to death."


End file.
